


Split Seconds, Split Decisions

by kristen999



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s09e10 Pio Ke Kukui Po'ele Ka Hale (When the Light Goes Out the House is Dark)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 02:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17613509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristen999/pseuds/kristen999
Summary: Junior performs triage on his mentor, wrestles with internal conflict, and makes some choices. All in no particular order.  9.10 Missing scene.





	Split Seconds, Split Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This took way too many revisions. /o\ I needed a short break from the longer story I've been working on since November. Eeep.
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader Gaelicspirit for all her suggestions.

***

Junior was a SEAL, the best of the best, loyal to Team and Country. 

He’d found fulfillment in the Navy, in serving his country, in the comradeship with his fellow SEALs. Waking up each day meant conquering another challenge; thriving on every adversity, earning the privilege of wearing the trident on his sleeve.

Then one day it all fell apart and he became unmoored.

After being adrift for weeks, Junior made his way back to Oahu. He didn’t require much. A roof over his head, three squares a day, and a purpose. The first two were the basic tenets for living, but without a job, securing them had been a challenge. 

Goals and motivation were pushed aside because waking up every morning to find something meaningful to do each day was an exercise in futility. It made him feel useless, lost.

Like the ebb and flow of the sea though, he found another current and followed it. 

He was proud to serve with Five-O, to call his new teammates Ohana, and its Commander? Junior owed him his _life._

And that deep respect, that feeling of allegiance, slowly gnawed a guilt-size hole in his gut as he went to an appointment regarding a new apartment. Last summer he’d put that search on hold, but months later a part of him sought a place of his own—to leave the barracks, as it were.

So, his stomach churned when he’d received a single text from Commander McGarrett: _156.8._

Junior left the apartment viewing and broke every speed limit known to man. 

_156.8 MHz_ was the radio frequency for sending a naval distress signal. It was a mutually agreed upon code word that both men created after Junior had moved in. It meant McGarrett was under duress or needed immediate back-up. 

Parking his car hap-haphazard in the driveway, Junior drew his gun and breached the living room door, taking two steps inside and stopped. 

Threat assessments were made in split seconds. McGarrett sat on the edge of his sofa in bloodstained clothes, his SIG pointed in Junior’s direction, arm trembling with the effort. 

Defusing the situation was the priority. Junior put his hands in the air and pointed his own SIG at the ceiling. “It’s just me, sir.”

McGarrett nodded. “Close the door.”

After ensuring the door was locked, Junior secured his weapon in the waistband of his pants. “Sitrep?” 

“I was attacked by a professional in the kitchen. I wounded the target and he’s still at large.” McGarrett finished his succinct report and laid his weapon on top of his thigh which was bleeding heavily. He gestured at the medical kit on the sofa. “Could you help?”

Junior had not planned on waiting for permission, but he was glad it was given. 

McGarrett had managed to drag the kit from the bathroom cabinet, but hadn’t opened it yet, either from pain or lack of time. Grabbing it, Junior knelt in front of his friend and began pulling out supplies. It took everything in him not to dwell on what transpired while he was out. Act now, analyze later. 

Reaching over, Junior placed a finger along McGarrett’s carotid artery and felt the thready beat. _Not great, but not life-threatening._ Dropping his hand, he glanced at the bleeding cut on the front of his friend’s shirt. “Is the chest laceration the worst injury?”

“No. Left forearm. Chest, then thigh.” The importance of injuries was delivered with a tightly controlled voice. 

McGarrett’s face was pale, his breaths rapid, but steady. Junior could tell he was practicing combat breathing to battle the pain. Blood covered McGarrett’s shorts and trailed down of the sides of his calf and onto the floor. More of it stained front of the light-grey tee and dripped down his entire arm. What the hell had happened?

Junior trusted his CO’s medical assessments, but needed a visual confirmation of which injury was the most critical. Knife wounds were tricky; they could be deeper than an initial examination would reveal. Shock could cause confusion. 

Pulling out a pair of scissors from the med-kit, Junior held them up in the air. McGarrett nodded permission and Junior went to work cutting his shirt away. 

Rivulets of blood streamed down McGarrett’s chest from a laceration across his right pec. Okay, it was bad, but not horrible. 

Junior moved McGarrett’s hand where it applied pressure on his forearm to check the severity. The arm lac was indeed deeper; blood had already soaked through the towel. It was the main concern. 

Calculating how long it would take to stitch three different knife wounds, Junior pulled out a large compression bandage from the med kit. Tearing it open with his teeth, he handed it to McGarrett. “Put pressure on your leg, sir.”

McGarrett obeyed, pressing on the dressing over the wound. One of the fiercest men of action Junior had ever known just sat in silence. It was unnerving, made Junior paranoid. Was he tracking things? Did he have a concussion? 

Grabbing the plunger from the kit, Junior began irrigating the forearm gash with saline. McGarrett grunted, his entire body tensing, but he managed to keep his injured arm from trembling. It was an amazing demonstration of fortitude; it meant that McGarrett was present, focused. But he still wasn’t enacting a plan.

“I really think we should call a bus.”

“Negative.” McGarrett’s voice was thick with pain, his pallor graying with every second. 

Junior shook his head. “You could go into shock.”

McGarrett flicked his gaze in Junior’s direction, pinning him a challenging stare. “It’s your job to keep that from happening.”

Junior stared back with the same intensity. “Yes, sir.”

He had served under his share of commanding officers. Junior had respected them all in varying degrees. And while neither of them was active SEALs, Junior considered McGarrett his CO rather than his boss. There was a difference of course, but old habits were hard to break.

Good COs maintained calmness even in the most stressful situations, making swift decisions in the battlefield that affected their team. In a world of chaos, subordinates relied on their leaders to make the right decision.

Commander McGarrett demonstrated that he was an exceptional CO, although he sometimes put everyone’s safety above his own too many times for Junior’s liking. Not in a self-destructive way, but McGarrett was never willing to ask his team to do anything he wouldn’t. He always took the risk first. 

It was Junior’s duty to follow his orders. Ensure his safety—even when he’d failed at it

After cleaning the laceration with saline, Junior poured iodine over the needle to sterilize it before beginning the painstaking process of suturing the wound. 

Suturing was a skill that took a considerable amount of practice. If done incorrectly, it could cause a life-threatening infection; at best, it’d leave a terrible scar. In an ER, usually a numbing agent was injected so the person couldn’t feel the needle going in. There was none in the med-kit.

Junior bit down on his lip, ensuring each pull and tug of the needle was efficient, but careful. He would not disfigure his mentor.

After completing the forearm wound, Junior wiped away the sweat from his brow. He glanced at McGarrett. His face was lined with pain, his eyes squeezed shut. Blood continued seeping from the chest laceration in morbid trails of red over his skin.

McGarrett still held the bandage in a death grip over his thigh, issuing no further orders. Junior burned with the need to do something more than triage.

“I need to stitch the other cuts,” Junior said, needing McGarrett to move so he could continue first aid. 

Without a word, McGarrett leaned back against the sofa. The act displayed incredible amount of trust. 

Breathing through any remaining nerves, Junior went to work on the longer gash, hands steady, the stitches small and even. During the whole ordeal, McGarrett clenched his jaw so tight it looked like it might pop out of place. 

Every so often, McGarrett grunted or jerked in response when Junior tugged on a suture a little too hard. His gaze strayed to the doors, to the living room, his fingers brushing over the surface of his weapon before closing his eyes again. 

Junior kept an eye McGarrett’s vitals: his respirations rate, paleness, taking his pulse when he’d finished the last stitch along the forearm. 

Taking a shaky breath, McGarrett rubbed his hand over his face, craning his head to inspect the stitches. “Nice work.”

“I’ve got one more to go,” Junior said.

McGarrett removed the dressing covering the wound on his thigh and stared at it with little emotion. “This one doesn’t look too bad.”

Given the fact that someone tried to cut him to ribbons, Junior was grateful for small mercies. He didn’t comment, trying to keep his mind on the task of triage, keeping the wounds clean from infection, ensuring blood loss was minimal and shock was at bay. 

If he allowed his thoughts to drift to what-ifs to the millions of questions at the tip of his tongue–like demanding the identity of the target to go after in retaliation—he wouldn’t be able to perform his duty in the here and now. 

McGarrett was right; the one to the thigh wasn’t deep. It looked like it was slash created from the tip of the knife instead of the full length of the blade like the others. Cutting a slit in the board shorts with the scissors, Junior irrigated the wound before adding the final line of sutures. 

Junior released a heavy breath and settled against the sofa, tossing the needle in the kit. He needed a shot of whiskey but would settle for some back-up. “We should call the others.”

“I’m not reporting this.”

Although it made him angry, the answer didn’t surprise him. McGarrett didn’t call Danny, or a bus, or the team first. He’d texted Junior which meant he’d wanted discretion. 

It’d seem highly unusual, but Junior recalled the day he’d moved in that the tour of the house included the secret gun safe and weapons were hidden in various areas. Bathroom cabinet, bedroom nightstand. The breadbox. 

In the back of his mind Junior knew his boss wasn’t paranoid, he was prepared, accepting consequences for certain choices in life. Missions and actions hidden in various redacted files. While his SEAL career was much shorter, Junior understood the sacrifice made during certain ops, pushing everything into dark corners, never to be seen or spoken about again.

During Junior’s introspection, McGarrett had found the medical tape and applied a bandage over the stitches to his thigh, protecting the wound. 

Before he could blink, McGarrett pushed himself to his feet, listing sideways a moment later. 

Damn it. 

Junior grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. “You should sit back down.”

McGarrett locked his legs in place, grasping onto Junior until he was balanced. “It’s just an adrenaline dump from the fight.” He waved a hand over his shredded T-shirt and tattered shorts. “I need to change.”

McGarrett was nothing but coiled muscle and stitched-up skin. He really did need clothes.

“I’ll get you something,” Junior told him.

Instead of returning to the couch, McGarrett grabbed his gun and sat in the wooden rocking chair, scanning the entrance and exit points. Alert and waiting.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Junior went into the master bedroom, found the right dresser drawer and grabbed a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Returning downstairs, Junior handed the clothes to his friend.

It took a while for McGarrett to get into his jeans; he hissed putting on his t-shirt. He looked even more ragged after changing and was still too pale for Junior’s liking. 

“I’m going to get you something to drink,” Junior said.

Taking a minute to get McGarrett fluids was worth taking the time because once he got him stable, Junior hoped to get some answers. Junior froze when he saw the shambled remains of the kitchen, all the blood, the Glock 17 with suppressor. He bent down and stared at the weapon, a hot wave of anger coursing through him.

Someone tried to assassinate his friend, his mentor. His CO. _While you were looking for a new place to move._ Junior’s nostrils flared, and he balled his hands into fists. He wanted vengeance; he wanted to hurt the people responsible for this. 

_No. Shut it down. Focus._

Using a rag, he scooped up the weapon and brought it into the living room, drink forgotten. 

When Junior entered the Navy, he’d become a sailor then a Special Operator taught in extreme military discipline.

Discipline wasn’t about just following orders or receiving punishments for doing the _wrong thing._ It was something leaders and a team built together. It was confidence, even under stressful conditions. A disciplined unit was made up of members who trusted each other and knew they could accomplish any mission because of that discipline.

“We should call the others,” Junior said. “Call _our team.”_

A myriad of expressions ran across McGarrett’s face. Frustration, worry. He sighed in resignation, his lips thinning before he gave Junior a curt nod. The fact that he had to force the issue made something in the back of his heart ache. 

They needed reinforcements because whatever happened here was bad. It’d made the man before him retreat into himself without consulting the rest of his unit. The ones he depended on day in and day out without question. Junior recognized that dark, familiar place, knew how cold and lonely it could be. 

Dialing Grover’s number, Junior walked into the study and gave him a short, abridged version of events. It was not a phone call he ever wanted to have again. 

But he still had another to make.

Junior knelt in front of his friend. “Sir?”

McGarrett slouched against the rocker, regarding him with a weary expression. “Yeah?”

“I should call, Detective Williams.”

“Negative.”

“Sir….”

“No. That’s an order.”

Junior snapped his mouth shut.

Enlisting into the military meant he’d sworn to obey the orders of his CO. The Chain of Command was vital, it provided stability during chaos. It was a method of maintaining the integrity of the unit, to give respect to the senior ranking person.

Respect was earned, and Junior respected the hell out of McGarrett, but now a part of him was severely torn.

“Sir…,” he swallowed. “Steve…you need Detective Williams.”

Opening red-rimmed eyes, McGarrett leaned forward, his SIG gripped firmly in his right hand, his voice sawdust. “What I need is to keep him safe.”

“He’d want to keep _you_ safe, sir.”

 _“I know.”_ McGarrett stared at Junior; stared so hard and with such scrutiny, a cold shiver went down Junior’s spine. “And that’s why you can’t call him. Is that understood?”

Junior swallowed. He did understand because Detective Williams was McGarrett’s partner, his shoreline, one of his most protective assets. 

“Yes, sir,” he said when everything else screamed no. 

When Junior had been sworn in to the United States Navy, he’d given up the right to speak his opinion against an order, no matter what he thought or believed in.

But he wasn’t in the Navy anymore; he was part of Five-O and her leader needed more than he could give. 

Grabbing the med-kit he pulled out more bandages, so he could cover up the rest of the sutures. McGarrett slumped further into the rocking chair, relenting to Junior’s care, sharing his trust. Relieved the issue would not be pressed any further. 

He heard the rest of the team arriving, their car doors slamming closed and their panicked footsteps hurrying inside. Discipline and respect had been the guiding pillars in Junior’s life, but the need to protect his friend, his CO, was much greater. 

Sometimes it took the whole team to protect their leader, to tread the fine line between obedience and loyalty. 

As he finished taping up the injuries, Junior knew for only the second time in his life he would violate a direct order. 

Despite the chain of command, Junior would make that other phone call, because he owed McGarrett more than respect or even discipline, he owed him everything.  
***

Fini-

I had no intention on writing this, until I did! :) Not sure if there is much about Junior in the fandom and I wanted to give him a shot.


End file.
